


the important part

by dirtywater



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2019 Offseason, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 23:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19365538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtywater/pseuds/dirtywater
Summary: “How are you, honestly?” he asks after a second. Figures it can’t hurt to start small. “And don’t fucking bullshit me, either.”“I’m fine,” he starts to answer and Brad does punch him this time, right in the thigh.Brad finds Patrice after the NHL Awards.





	the important part

**Author's Note:**

> what is up my dudes. this was mostly an accident.

Brad lets himself into the house. It’s quiet as he kicks off his shoes.

The only signs of life are another pair of shoes by the door and the texts on his phone telling him to come over, if he wants. He drops his keys and sunglasses on the little table by the door. His head throbs a little in protest. He should have gotten coffee before he came. He shouldn’t have drank as much as he did last night. Whatever. 

He follows the faint sound of a television playing deeper into the house until he finds what he’s looking for.

One Patrice Bergeron, currently sprawled out on the couch, staring dead eyed at the television and looking like shit. Brad’s chest aches just looking at him.

“How long have you been sitting there?” he asks, ruining whatever peace and quiet Pat had been trying to find. He starts and blinks rapidly at Brad.

“Oh,” he breathes out and shakes his head. “Hi. Um. Not long. I got a flight back early this morning.”

Brad narrows his eyes but doesn’t comment. It doesn’t matter. He’s back in Boston. That’s the important part. Brad sits down on the couch and kicks at his leg. “That bad?” he asks, aiming for sarcastic and landing at mildly concerned.

Patrice laughs, a tired small thing, and shrugs. “Could’ve been worse.”

There he is, Saint Patrice. Brad could punch him. He rolls his eyes, not bothering to hide it. “You eaten yet?” he asks, ignoring the blatant lie. Pat just shakes his head.

There’s almost nothing in the kitchen, but Brad finds a forgotten protein bar. He goes back to Patrice and throws it at his head. He only barely catches it. Brad frowns harder. “Eat. You look like shit, man.”

Glaring, Patrice flips him off but diligently does as told. “Gee, thanks.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome. Did you get me anything from Vegas?” he asks, just to be a dick, as he sits back down on the couch. It almost feels normal.

“No,” Patrice says, shaking his head dramatically. He finishes up the bar and chucks the wrapper at Brad’s head. It sails over his shoulder. “I’m giving it to Torey instead now. He’ll probably fill it out better than you anyways.”

“Hey!” Brad protests and kicks at him again. Berg smiles for a second before it drops.

It’s almost normal, except for all the ways it really isn’t.

There are too many things he wants to say, waiting in the silence between them. Brad doesn’t know where to start. “How are you, honestly?” he asks after a second. Figures it can’t hurt to start small. “And don’t fucking bullshit me, either.”

“I’m fine,” he starts to answer and Brad does punch him this time, right in the thigh.

“Dude, what did I just say!” he grumbles.

Patrice makes a face and shrugs again. Silence settles. Brad watches Patrice while Patrice sorts through himself and chooses what words he wants to use. It takes time. Brad doesn’t rush him.

“I just.” Berg lets out a sigh and tips his head back against the couch. “I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired,” he says with a hint of a whine, a little pout taking up residency on his face.

Brad laughs softly. “Okay, so, go the fuck to sleep,” he says. Patrice turns to glare at him. He smiles a little and shrugs. “It’s been a long week,” he adds on, trying for flippant. It only kind of hurts to say.

Well, no. That’s a lie. It hurts a shit ton, but he’s getting better at ignoring it. For the most part. Or he’s just getting better at lying to himself. It’s probably the same thing.

“I know,” comes Patrice’s reply, harsh enough that Brad raises an eyebrow at him. He covers his face with a hand and just breathes for a second. It’s quiet between them, only the television playing softly in the background.

“It’s only been a week,” he says, voice mournful in a way that makes the constant ache in Brad’s chest hurt even more. “God, and those stupid fucking awards.” He sighs again and drags his hand down his face. Brad’s only a little distracted. “I can’t stop thinking long enough to sleep,” Patrice finally admits. “I can’t settle.”

“I could help with that,” he offers on auto pilot, a leer sliding on his face. It’s mostly a joke. They haven’t done that in a while. Brad’s mostly fine with it.

Patrice gives him a long look, teeth digging into his bottom lip. There’s a faint blush creeping up onto his face the longer he looks. “Maybe later,” he says with a small smile.

Brad is a lot distracted.

“Uh,” he says, his brain throwing absolutely everything at him all at once. Memories, ideas, past sensations. He shifts in his seat, knowing there’s absolutely no way to hide it, and drags a hand over his face. Patrice is out right grinning when he looks back at him, sweet and smug in a way he’s perfected over the years. He starts laughing when Brad glares at him. “Fucker.”

“Nah,” he lobs back and doesn’t bother trying to dodge the pillow Brad throws at him, still too busy laughing.

“Ugh,” he says and shoves him. Patrice shoves him back and everything dissolves into a halfhearted shoving match on the couch.

Eventually they settle, Patrice’s head on Brad’s shoulder. Brad is desperately aware of every one of his slow breaths against his neck.

“Dude, have you slept like, at all?” he asks quietly. He’s pretty sure he knows the answer. He wants to be wrong.

Pat shrugs, jostling them a little. “A bit, here and there.”

Brad mentally translates that to _barely_ and very carefully doesn’t sigh. It’s not like his sleeping has been any better this week. And he didn’t have to parade around in Vegas for the masses just to lose again.

Brad tips his head back against the couch. He doesn’t know how to help this. He’s barely holding it together himself. Patrice plays with one of his hands. They breathe together. The television plays on, some cop procedural going through the motions. Brad spares a second to be thankful it’s not the fucking NHL network.

They haven’t talked about it, not really. Not just the two of them. There’s always been something in the way. The aftermath of the loss, comforting the team, dealing with reporters, getting absolutely drunk for at least a solid two days, a trip to Vegas. Brad isn’t even sure if they’ve been alone together since before the loss.

It’s only been a week. It feels like an entire lifetime.

“I really thought we were gonna win,” Brad says, the words forcing themselves out, and it _hurts_. He doesn’t miss the way Patrice flinches a little, but there’s nothing Brad can do. The words are already out there. His hand stills and, a moment later, he laces their fingers together.

“Yeah,” Patrice says, sad and mournful again. He doesn’t say anything else, nothing about how it was still a great fucking season regardless or about next season. “Me too.”

Brad aches. He fucking hates this.

They sit there for another few minutes. Too many emotions are fighting for a top spot and it makes his head ache worse. “Alright. Game fucking plan,” he says, coming to a decision. “We’re gonna take a nap ‘cause you sure as shit need sleep and I’m pretty sure I’m still a little bit hungover. Then -”

Patrice pulls away enough so Brad can see his frown. “Why are you hungover?”

“I knew you wouldn’t get drunk after the awards, so I went ahead and got drunk for you,” he says and flashes a grin that morphs into half a grimace. “You know, like, for solidarity.”

Patrice is already shaking his head before he finishes. “God, you’re full of shit,” he complains, but it’s fond so Brad will take it.

“Yeah, whatever. Anyways. Nap. Then we’re gonna go crash the Krug household because some hot shot hasn’t even met his brand new niece yet.”

That perks Patrice up, a soft smile lighting his face up. “Little Saylor. She’s perfect. I would’ve rather been here,” he says, a little defensive.

Brad snorts. “Yeah, man, anyone with eyes could see that. Come on,” he says and shoves him off. The television gets shut off and Brad drags him up into the bedroom.

“Was your plan really just to get me into bed all along?” Berg asks, amused, and Brad flips him off even as he feels his cheeks heat up a little. That _maybe later_ is still rattling around his head.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He just laughs and throws a pair of sweatpants at Brad. He’s already under the covers by the time Brad is done changing out of his jeans and into them and setting an alarm on his phone. He drops it onto a nightstand and as soon as he’s close enough, Patrice pulls him down onto the bed. They get into another shoving match, laughing and swearing. Patrice almost falls out of the bed.

It settles some of the ache in Brad’s chest.

Brad ends up on his back, Patrice using his chest as a pillow. He runs a hand through Pat’s hair. He doesn’t know if he can sleep but he already feels better.

“Thank you, Brad,” Patrice says, quiet. His lips brush against Brad’s chest as he talks, feather light. Brad almost misses his beard.

“Of course,” he says and drops a kiss to the top of his head. He thinks he can feel Patrice smile.

“After we nap,” he says. Brad can hear his voice already slurring, trying to fight off sleep.

“After we nap what?” he asks, his own eyes closing. Okay, he could sleep for a week like this.

Patrice presses a deliberate kiss to his chest. “I said maybe later. So. After we nap.”

It takes a second. Brad blinks his eyes open and stares at the top of his head. “Oh,” he manages, trying to hold his body entirely still. Berg laughs, almost asleep and still too smug for his own good.

“God, go the fuck to sleep, Patrice,” Brad says, fighting back his own laughter. He pulls on his hair a little and gets rewarded with another kiss.

“M’kay,” he sighs and it doesn’t take long for his breathing to even out.

Brad relaxes back into the bed. Eventually the alarm on his phone will go off. They’ll have to get up and get real food. They have a brand new baby niece to meet, a Torey to relentlessly chirp, and a Mel to spoil. 

Offseason stretches out ahead of them. They have time. To heal, to recover. To settle.

Brad gets lulled to sleep listening to Patrice breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [dirtywaterbears](https://dirtywaterbears.tumblr.com/post/185855183265/the-important-part-patrice-bergeronbrad)


End file.
